Saturday, March 11, 2017
I've been everywhere, man
I've been everywhere, man
Crossed the deserts bare, man
Breathed the mountain air, man
I haven't been everywhere, but I've been to over 30 countries on every continent except Antarctica, with a hookup, date, or sausage sighting in almost every one. I'm going to go through them all, and list my favorite naked men.
To count, they have to actually be from the country (no ex-pats) and be living there during my visit (Yuri won't count in Russia, for instance).
1. Austria. During the Famous Slovakian Summer of 2005, Doc and I spent a weekend in Vienna, where we met and "shared" Josef, an architectural student at the Academy of Fine Arts. Cute in a nerdish way, with the most beautiful uncut Kielbasa I have ever seen.
2. Belgium. An overnight stop on my regular Paris to Amsterdam trip. There used to be a private club there with a dark room in back so big, it had bunk beds, where in March 2002 I spent most of the night with a Flemish psychiatrist named Lukas.
3. Britain. In 2007, I flew to London to visit Yuri and his boyfriend Michael, and we went to an "Indie" bar (I thought "Indie" meant South Asians, but it doesn't). I picked up a South Asian anyway, Nehal, an enormously well hung Emo boy who turned out to be a bottom.
4. The Czech Republic. During the Famous Slovakian Summer of 2005, we visited Prague, one of the most beautiful cities in Europe. While we were working out at the gym, a very muscular gym rat named Evzin asked if I was a "movie star." I was so flattered that I had no choice to invite him back to our hotel room.
5. Denmark. I've only been there for a brief layover, enough to go to Tivoli Gardens and back, so I'm going to have to use a sausage sighting at the urinals. I assume the guy was a local.
6. Estonia. On our second night in Talinn during our Baltic States tour of 1998, Yuri and I landed a date with Kaspar, an office worker in his 30s with blond hair, a tight, muscular frame, and a Bratwurst+, plus a Swedish bodybuilder named Kalle. We joked that "Kaspar and Kalle" sounded like a comic book title.
7. Finland. Three days in Helsinki during our Baltic States tour of 1998. I went to the gym by myself and had a chubby blond twink go down on me in the shower.
8. France. I've been to France lots of times, so it's hard to decide. Maybe Farshad, the French Moroccan on my Sausage List (Mortadella+), who hooked up with Leonardo DiCaprio and helped found a gay Muslim organization in Paris.
9. Germany. During my sophomore year in college, I dated Wolfgang, a choirboy at St. Peter's Cathedral in Regensburg.
10. Hungary. Budapest, during the Famous Slovakian Summer of 2005. A tall, thin guy with a Bohemian beard approaches Doc and me on the street. At first we think he's a panhandler, but it turns out he's just cruising badly. Into kissing and oral, Kielbasa beneath the belt.
More after the break
Friday, March 10, 2017
I was saddened to hear that Larson's Funeral Home in Rock Island is closing.
It may seem strange to get nostalgic over a funeral home, but the gigantic blue-stone structure in downtown Rock Island was an important part of my childhood.
1. It sent out advertising calendars to everyone in town every year, perhaps as a momento mori. I checked the date hundreds of times on a red-emblazoned calendar from Larson's Funeral Home.
2. It was the site of a major sausage fondling.
In the fall of 1972, when I was in seventh grade, my friend Craig's older brother had a job at Larson's Funeral Home.
Jim was sixteen years old, tall and lean, with sharp features, a thick neck, and hard wiry biceps (I never actually saw him naked).
All he had to do was stay in the office overnight to answer the telephone, take down the information about someone who just died, and call the mortician to arrange a pickup.
Most nights, no one called, so Jim just camped out in the office: there was a television and a couch where he could sleep. Down the hall there was a kitchen, with lots of leftover hors d'oevres in the refrigerator.
Seventh graders were all in awe of the boy who had a brother who worked with dead bodies! Was it gross? Was it creepy?
Could we see one of the dead bodies?
We asked, but Jim refused: "I could get into a lot of trouble."
"Come on -- you let your friends visit all the time."
"Yeah, my friends. Grownups, dig? I could get into a lot of trouble letting little kids run wild in the funeral home. What if you knocked over a funeral urn, and scattered some poor guy's ashes all over?"
That only made us more anxious to go.
Finally, one Friday morning around Halloween, Jim gave in. "We just had a new pickup last night," he told Craig. "That boy who died in the car accident down in Coal Valley. He's still in the embalming room. You guys come over tonight around 10:00 pm, and I'll give you a tour."
10:00 pm? We had to be in bed by 10:00! This would take a little strategizing:
1. Brett, the cute dark-haired boy I danced with at the canteen, invited Craig, Bill, and me over for a spur-of-the -moment sleepover.
2. At 9:00 pm, Brett's older brother and his friend offered to take us all out to Happy Joe's for pizza. They said "We might be back a little late."
3. At 10:00 pm we parked on a side street and, talking and laughing to cover up our nervousness, walked up to the front door of Larson's Funeral Home.
Jim let us in, told us to wipe our feet, and showed us around.
The lounges, the music room, the library, the coffin room.
Jim demonstrated why Barnabas Collins, the vampire on Dark Shadows, was never filmed getting out of his coffin. There's no way to do it without looking ridiculous.
That was interesting, but we wanted to see the dead body!
The small chapel, the large chapel, the kitchen, the office.
What about the dead body?
"Ok, I saved the scariest part for last," Jim said loudly, stopping in front of a tan metal door. "I just want to make sure you're prepared. Sometimes the eyes are still open, and they follow you around the room. And do you know what rigor mortis is?"
We shook our heads.
"No way!" I exclaimed. "Not the dick!"
Jim nodded solemnly. "Everywhere. It's pretty gross. I won't make fun of you if you decide to stay behind."
Are you kidding?
He opened the door and led us into the embalming room. It looked like a doctor's office, all white cabinets, rubber gloves, and gleaming steel implements, but on the examination table lay a naked teenage boy.
Blond curly hair. A cute round face, a red mark on his forehead. Eyes closed. Smooth hairless chest, pale arms and legs. Beautiful, thick Bratwurst. Fully aroused.
I couldn't take my eyes off it.
"You can go up and touch him if you want," Jim suggested.
The others hung back, hesitating, but I moved forward to the table. Jim looked surprised when, instead of touching his hand or face, I gently wrapped my fingers around his penis.
It was warm!
At that moment Corpse Boy opened his eyes.
I jerked myhand away.
He sat up and yelled "Uggh!"
We all screamed and ran from the room, out into the small chapel, and into the foyer. Brett got to the front door first. It was locked.
Jim and his friends were laughing. "We got you good!" he exclaimed. "Meet my Cousin Boris, from Transylvania."
Corpse Boy emerged, pulling on a pair of jeans. He was still partially aroused. "I vant to suck your blood!" he said in a Dracula accent.
I was pretty sure that it was all a prank before I grabbed Corpse Boy's penis. But not entirely sure.
Years later, I ran into Jim at the Mall. He asked "Have you felt up any corpses lately?"
I get nostalgic thinking about Larson's Funeral Home.
See also: Slow Dancing in Junior High; The Demolish Boys Get Naked and Touch Each Other.
Wednesday, March 8, 2017
He returns your cruising smile, so you start a brief conversation. Now it's time to make a move: you have to let him know that you have erotic intentions, or he'll write you off as a passing acquaintance. But you can't be too blatant. What do you do?
You touch his chest.
Specifically the top of the pectoralis major, that flat area above the nipple, over his heart.
The chest is not an intimate zone, like the face or the crotch, so if you made a mistake and he's not interested, he will not be offended.
But it is not a "friendly" zone, like the hand or the shoulder. The only reason to touch it is to let him know that you find him physically attractive, that you want a date or a hookup.
When you're talking to a pair or a group, it clarifies which one you're interested in.
There are occasional circumstances where the first touch is somewhere else.
If you managed to arrange a first date without a touch, you'll probably begin the intimacy by putting your arm around him rather than touching his chest.
At sex parties and bathhouses, guys sometimes sit aroused, waiting, so you can drop to your knees immediately and go down on them. But still, a chest-touch is recommended, just to make sure he's up for it.
More after the break.
Tuesday, March 7, 2017
Not me. My cousins all lived hundreds of miles away, so we didn't get a lot of contact, at best two visits per year, at Christmas and in the summer.
Still, during my childhood, I accidentally got four sausage sightings and one grope: Joe, Phil, George, and Buster, four of my six boy cousins (not counting the ones from Kentucky).
Leaving Ed, 12 years older than me, and Graydon, 14 years younger (born in 1975, the only son of my Uncle Paul).
When I moved to West Hollywood in 1985, Cousin Graydon was still prepubescent, so there wouldn't have been much of a point to a sausage sighting.
But as he grew up, for some reason he bonded with my parents and sister, and after they moved to Indianapolis, he often drove down to visit, whether he was living in Auburn, Warsaw, Fort Wayne, or Grand Ile, Michigan. Our paths crossed during several Christmas and summer holidays.
The young adult Graydon was tall and beefy -- he worked in construction, which gave him a presentable physique. A bright, open face and a shock of dirty-blond hair. Very cute. A very visible bulge on the right side of his jeans.
I wanted a sausage sighting.
But whenever we visited Mom and Dad at the same time, I got the spare bedroom, and Cousin Graydon took the fold-out couch in the study (later the home gym/sauna).
So no covers kicked off the bed. No morning wood.
No "accidentally" running into him during a late-night bathroom visit.
When I suggested that we go jogging, Cousin Graydon went in there to strip down and change clothes.
Indianapolis, December 24th, 2010
My boyfriend Troy and I have driven out to Indianapolis from Upstate New York. We arrive bearing presents for my parents, my brother and sister, my nephew, and...sure enough, Cousin Graydon.
36 years old, unmarried but heterosexual, still working in construction.
Bearded, with a tattoo on his bicep, but still buffed. Still with a very visible bulge on the right side of his jeans.
One of the dogs leaps onto his lap and accidentally lands on his bulge. He grimaces and runs his hand over it.
I really want a sausage sighting.
So this year I go all out.
His Christmas present is a retro Hawaiian swimsuit, so I can watch him change "to make sure it fits."
He changes in the bathroom.
Well, at least I get a bulge sighting.
That night I try to stay awake, waiting for a late-night trip to the bathroom, a half-opened door, and an "accidental" sausage sighting. Eventually I fall asleep.
We always open our presents on Christmas Eve, so there's nothing to do on Christmas Day but have dinner. In the afternoon, Troy and I work out in the home gym, and then hit the sauna. Cousin Graydon joins us -- in his underwear!
It's a small home sauna, very cramped with three people. I can see his bulge very clearly.
But that's not a sausage sighting!
"You know what they do in Finland after a sauna?" I tell him. "They take off their clothes and run around naked in the snow."
"No way I would do that!" Graydon exclaims.
It's no longer about the sausage sighting. It's the principle. I've seen four of my six male cousins naked without even trying. Why is this one such a pain?
Later I "accidentally" leave a book in the home gym, so I can go to retrieve it when Graydon is already in bed.
No sausage sighting.
This is getting urgent. Graydon is going back to Michigan tomorrow!
Again I stay awake into the night, waiting for a bathroom visit.
No bathroom visit. Eventually I fall asleep.
After breakfast, Graydon leaves for Michigan, and my parents go to church. Troy and I say that we're going to hang around the house, playing with the dogs and working on our laptops.
The moment we're alone, Troy takes my hand. "Guess what? I accomplished something that you've been trying to do for years. All it took was a little luck."
I listen with increasing consternation.
In the middle of the night, Troy woke up with indigestion, and went into the kitchen to look for some Alka-Seltzer. Graydon was there, standing over the sink eating a turkey sandwich, while the dogs looked on, begging.
One of the dogs thought that the tassel on Graydon's bathrobe was a toy, and started tugging on it. The bathrobe fell open.
Troy couldn't help staring.
Graydon quickly wrapped up again. "This never happened," he said with a grin.
"Fantastic! Cut Kielbasa. Low-hanging balls. You should have been there!"
Well, there's always next year.
See also: Sausage Sighting of My Cousin Buster.
Monday, March 6, 2017
The bulge is an essential part of the costume, an overt, obvious sign of the matador's manhood.
Either all matadors are exceptionally well hung, or they pad down there.
You can even see the teeth marks, as we used to say in West Hollywood.
Of course, in a real corrida, you're seeing them from a great distance, while sitting in a gigantic stadium, but when his bulge is almost as big as his head, you can't help but notice.
This matador is on the small side, which means enormous for everybody else.
More after the break.
Sunday, March 5, 2017
Plains, March 2017
I met Reynard (not his real name) on Grindr at the beginning of the fall 2015 semester. He was 18 years old, a freshman theater arts major, and in my intro class! I don't hook up current students, so I turned him down.
Then he dropped my class so we could date!
Thinking that he was unstable, I turned him down again.
Last week, a year and a half later, he contacts me. He's transferred to another college about 100 miles away. He'll be driving through town on the way home for spring break, and he wants to stop by.
This time I say "yes."
We've never met in person. We've spoken barely a dozen words. I know nothing about him except the fact that he's driving 100 mils for a meeting he's been anticipating for a year and a half.
Obviously a simple blow job won't do the trick.
I plan the Best Date in the History of the Plains.
I instruct Reynard to meet me at the gay-friendly coffee house in the early afternoon, after lunch, and to bring his jogging clothes.
He arrives at 2:00 pm sharp: cuter than his profile pic, with a round face, unruly black hair, and dark eyebrows that give him almost a Mediterranean look. He's trying to smile, but can't quite make it -- he's almost trembling with nervousness.
We shake hands -- he has a loose, moist handshake.
"I've never done anything like this before," he says.
"What? Gone out on a date?"
"Not with -- you know, a professor."
"Call me Boomer."
We sit down at a little table for coffee and scones, and I tell him about the schedule for our date. I reach under the table and take his hand. He tries to smile.
3:00 pm: Jogging
It's a brisk March day, perfect for jogging. We go to the YMCA, change into our jogging clothes -- I give Reynard a good view of my penis, but he turns his back -- and then go jogging on the trail that goes through the woods for about 5 miles (we just go 2).
This gives him an opportunity to dispel some of his nervousness and chat some more.
Reynard has changed his major twice, first to psychology and then to biology, though he's still dancing. He strikes me as a little flighty, not focused. I tell him that I changed my major eight times as an undergraduate.
Afterwards we shower -- a good time to check each other out, and get some other sausage sightings -- and change back into our street clothes.
He's average sized but nicely shaped, cut, with low-hanging balls.
4:30 The Art Center
Just down the street from the YMCA, the Arts Center has monthly exhibits of local artists. This month it's countless paintings of lakes and rivers, but at least it's cultural. It gets the brain thinking about something other than getting laid. And it allows for more chatting -- and, in one of the secluded galleries, a bit of kissing.
We go out to dinner at an upscale seafood restaurant, sure to impress Reynard. I don't usually emphasize the age difference on a first date, but tonight I tell him about my 13 years in West Hollywood, including my hookup with Michael J. Fox.
He's never seen Back to the Future -- he doesn't care for science fiction. But he's into fantasy like Harry Potter, and cosplay. He likes to dress up like a wolf -- not for sex, I hope.
We discuss our favorite sexual positions. He's an anal and oral bottom, naturally, and he's never tried interfemoral. I promise to show him what it's like later.
Reynard has been stimulated in body and mind, and we've been talking on and off for four hours. Time for a break. I take him to a local high school production of Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat.
Unfortunately, Joseph stays fully clothed the whole time, but the palace guards are shirtless. This one is quite buffed.
We go to the straight bar downtown to cap off the night with hot chocolate -- I don't drink, and Reynard is too young. It's a straight bar, but on Saturday nights the clientele is mostly college boys. Wall-to-wall beefcake, and a lot of cruising.
The function of cruising on a date is not only to look at the hot guys and get revved up for the sex later -- it's to get approached by other guys, thereby increasing your date's perception of your attractiveness.
But it's not working tonight. Reynard becomes quiet, and even starts to doze off.
"I think it's about time to go home to bed," I announce.
As we drive back to my apartment, he puts his head on my shouler.
I skip the nightcap, since we already had hot chocolate, and bring Reynard into the bedroom. I unbutton his shirt and kiss and fondle his chest. He moans. I pull down his pants. He isn't aroused.
He lies down onto the bed, his butt in the air.
"I'm not into anal," I tell him. "Could we do interfemoral?"
"Sorry, I didn't mean that.," he murmurs, not looking up. "Um...do you mind if we, like, just cuddle tonight? I'm zonked -- been up since six, and all that stuff we did wore me out!"
"Sure, no problem." I take off my clothes, climb into bed, and pull him into my arms. In a few minutes he's snoring. And I'm fully aroused.
The problem with the Best Date in History is: it leaves you too tired for sex!
Sunday morning, I wake him up with a blow job, enter his mouth before saying "hello," and then push between his legs in interfemoral to finish. Twice before breakfast.
See also: A Student Drops My Class So We Can Date.
I arrived in Nashville on August 18th, 1991, sad about leaving West Hollywood but looking forward to my new graduate program in Biblical Hebrew at Vanderbilt Divinity School. I found an apartment and an adjunct teaching job, toured the campus, and looked for Nashville's gay life:
Three gay organizations, some bars, and a Metropolitan Community Church.
On my first Saturday, I went to two of the bars, both on dismal country roads beyond the city limits. The first was completely deserted except for a woman who tried to pick me up -- a real woman -- and the second was about half drag queens, half rednecks. No one I found attractive.
I missed Mugi and the French Quarter.
Disappointed, I left after about an hour. On the way back into town, I stopped at an old-fashioned ice cream place called Bobbie's Dairy Dip, ordered a hot fudge sundae, and sat at one of the picnic tables outside.
"'Scuse me, sir, do you mind if I join you?"
I looked up: A country boy, barely out of his teens: tall and thin, scruffy black hair, handsome round face, unshaven, wearing a button-down shirt, jeans, and dirty tennis shoes. Holding a dish of frozen custard.
"You were looking at me at that other place we was at, but I didn't have the nerve to come say hi. The name's Red."
Was this the way people cruised in Nashville?
Red was very talkative: he was 25 years old, grew up in a small town outside Nashville, and worked at a gas station. He just got out of prison a few months ago -- DUI and resisting arrest.
Not the best pickup line!
But he "turned his life around." He was sober, he had his GED, and he was taking classes at the community college. He wanted to go to Middle Tennessee State and study zoology.
"You been to college, ain't you?" he asked. "I can tell by the way you talk."
"Yep, I almost got a Ph.D. I'm at Vanderbilt now, studying Biblical Hebrew."
"Whoa, Biblical Hebrew, that's hard. I can tell, just talking to you, that your brain is working at like three or four levels above mine. Let me ask you something." He reached under the table and rubbed his foot against mine "Do you think it will ever be legal for people like us to get together?"
At that moment, some kids at another started table laughing. Red jumped up and ran to his car.
I joined him. "They weren't laughing at us, you know."
Red was cute, with the "lost soul" look I liked But I was a bit nervous about inviting a scruffy-looking stranger, an ex-con, back to my apartment. "I like to take things slow, get to know the guy," I said "How about we go out to dinner Tuesday night?"
"Ok. But someplace safe." He thought for a moment. "How about Bucky's, down in Columbia."
I'd never heard of Columbia, but I assumed it was a suburb of Nashville, where Red lived.
Of course, I got his contact information, and gave it to Lane back home.
Columbia turned out to be about 50 miles away, and Bucky's a heterosexist "family restaurant" that served "chicken an dressin'."
Red was wearing a plaid button-down shirt and a red tie. He gave me a plastic rose, the kind they sell at 7-11. A little weird.
"I never had a real date with a guy before," he said with a shy smile. "Usually they just want to do you and go home."
I hated smokers!
Afterwards he wanted to go to the club up in Nashville, where they had drag shows on Tuesday nights.
Then why did I drive all the way down here? For Southern Country Cooking?
But I had already invested time and energy in this guy, so we went. It was ok, if you like drag shows.
On the way back to our cars, a pick-up truck pulled up next to us, and the passenger-side door opened. It was all dark inside. "Hey, faggots," someone whispered. "Get in."
Red grabbed my hand, and we ran back to the bar. We waited a half hour before trying to leave again.
It was after midnight I was tired and scared. I just wanted to go home -- alone. But when I suggested that we call it a night, Red looked so disappointed that I invited him home.
We sat on the couch in the living room, kissing -- Red was admittedly good at that. But the moment I tried to go down on him, he said "You got any photo albums? I want to know everything there is to know about you."
So we watched TV and leafed through my photo albums. I showed Red photos of my parents and brother and sister, my friends at Denkmann, Washington, Rocky High, Augustana, Indiana, and West Hollywood. He kept up a constant stream of questions
I drew Red to his feet and pulled him into the bedroom. He stared at the bed next to the window.
"We can't sleep there! Too risky."
I was too tired to argue. I spread some blankets and pillows out onto the living room floor and tore off Red's shirt and tie. Hard hairy chest, lanky arms. I pulled his pants down and went down on his cut Kielbasa+. He groaned.
"Hey, you know what would be good? Some music."
So I turned MTV on, and we moved into 69 position to Madonna's "Express Yourself."
So if you want it right now, make him show you how
Express what he's got, oh baby ready or not
Red was very eager -- he finished while I was going down on him during "Express Yourself," and again on top of me, with his penis between my legs. Then he went down on me twice.
But the evening was too weird -- a 45 minute drive for chicken, a drag show, gay bashing, photo albums, MTV -- I decided not to see him again.
The next Sunday, I went to services at the MCC, the gay church. And Red was there, sititing in the front row!
See also: The Country-Western Star; the Bed-Switching Freshman at the Chocolate Moose.